July 30, 1973, Texas.
Duke stepped out of his rental car, he wore a simple linen shirt and jeans, but within thirty seconds of standing in the hundred-degree still air, the fabric was already starting to cling to his shoulder blades.
The set of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre looked like a war zone where the participants had simply given up.
Tobe Hooper stood by a cluster of equipment cases, looking horrible hollowed out by lack of sleep and a overdose of caffeine. His eyes were red, and his hands had a fine tremor.
"Duke," Tobe croaked, "Glad you're back. We're running on fumes. Lost two guys yesterday to heatstroke. One of them went down moving a generator and didn't wake up for twenty minutes. He's fine, but his wife came and dragged him home. We're shorthanded now."
Duke reached out and clapped a heavy hand on Tobe's shoulder. "Are we getting the footage, Tobe? That's the only question that matters."
Tobe beckoned Duke toward a makeshift editing tent. Inside, a small, flickering monitor was hooked up to a primitive playback system.
Tobe hit a switch, and a rough cut of the woods chase sequence began to play. No sound mix, no color correction. Just raw, grainy 16mm footage of a girl screaming through the brush while a massive shape pursued her.
Even in its most skeletal form, the footage was scary. It had a documentary-like grit that made Duke's skin crawl.
Duke watched the screen, an appreciative grin spreading across his face despite the sweat stinging his eyes. "That's the money, Tobe."
Tobe let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for days. A tired smile cracked on his weathered face. "One more week, Duke. Then we're done."
The transition from Duke, Paramount Chairman, to Leatherface took place in a stifling wardrobe tent that smelled like something Duke couldnt quite recognize.
The "fat suit" was stained with layers of sweat, encrusted with dust, stiffened by dried splashes of corn-syrup blood that had baked into the padding.
The mask had developed a new tear along the cheek where a branch had caught it during the last sprint.
Duke began the grim process of strapping himself in. The heat hit him the moment the foam touched his skin.
In the corner of the tent, a young wardrobe assistant named Carla was organizing a rack of blood-spattered aprons. She was barely twenty-four, working eighteen-hour days for peanuts.
As she reached for a makeup sponge, it slipped from her slick fingers and landed in the dirt. She stared at it for a long moment. Then quiet sobs broke through.
Duke, half-strapped into his heavy, grotesque padding, didn't hesitate. He crouched down and picked up the sponge.
"Hey," Duke said, his eyes locking onto hers. "We're almost done. Look at me. You're doing great. Take five minutes. Get some ice water, sit in the shade of the truck, and just relax for a moment."
Carla looked up, startled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hauser. I didn't mean to lose it, I just-"
Duke cut her off with a firm but kind pat on the shoulder. "Don't apologize, this production is hard."
She nodded, a flicker of relief crossing her face, and ducked out of the tent. Duke watched her go, then turned back to the mirror to finish the straps himself.
Fully suited, mask secured, and the heavy chainsaw in his grip, Duke stepped out into the dying light of the afternoon.
Tobe approached him for a final check.
"You don't have to run so hard on this next take, Duke," Tobe suggested, his voice low. "The frame rate will sell the speed. You're going to give yourself a heart attack in that suit if you run too fast. Save your energy for the dinner scene that we want to finish today. We already have the rest done."
Duke nodded in agreement since he couldnt speak clearly with this mask. Hell he couldnt even breath properly.
After redoing the chase scene a few times, the Dinner scene took place.
The set for the "Family Dinner" was a small room filled the stench of rotting food props, unwashed bodies, and fake blood.
Duke sat at the wooden table, his massive frame draped in the "Pretty Woman" mask, a grotesque version of Leatherface wearing a tangled blonde wig and smeared, bright red lipstick.
Jim Siedow and Edwin Neal were in their places, already vibrating with energy. Sally, played by a terrified Marilyn Burns was tied to a chair, her sobbing now a constant background noise.
"Action!" Tobe yelled.
The room exploded into overlapping laughter. The Hitchhiker began cutting into a plate of empty air, his movements jerky, while the Cook shouted about the price of gas.
Duke remained silent, his performance was entirely in the subtle movements of his head.
After twenty five grueling takes that left everyone physically and emotionally spent, Tobe finally lowered his megaphone. "That's it. Ladies and gentlemen... we are officially done."
The applause that broke out was small and weary. Duke pulled off the mask, gasping for air like a drowning man breaking the surface. His face was beet-red, his hair matted with sweat. Jim Siedow walked over and handed him a cold Dr. Pepper.
Duke took it, took a moment to breathe and started vomiting from the smell.
They moved outside, sitting on the lowered tailgate of a pickup truck as the crew began packing away lights and cables.
"You gonna go back to that office after this?" Siedow asked, taking a long pull of his own soda. "Back to the air conditioning and the three-piece suits?"
Duke took a long sip of Dr. Pepper, "Yeah, i'm never acting as this Leatherface guy ever again, too much foul smells."
Siedow nodded in agreement.
___
To celebrate the wrap, Duke arranged for a private suite at the Dallas Chaparrals arena.
Even though the basketball team had been knocked out of the playoffs months ago, the facility was his to command.
The crew, still covered in dust and grime, piled into the luxury suite, wide-eyed at the spread of food, piles of smoked BBQ brisket, tubs of potato salad, cases of cold beer, and enough Dr. Pepper to float a boat.
Duke stood at the head of the room, looking clean and refreshed in a dark polo shirt after taking a shower.
"Listen up," Duke called out, "The food's paid for, the beer's endless, and I've booked a block of rooms at the hotel across the street so nobody has to drive. I can't stay, I've got a meeting in the city but the tab is open until the sun comes up. Don't be shy about things."
Duke shared a few more laughs, shook every hand in the room, and slipped out the back.
A helicopter was idling on a nearby's building landing pad, its rotor blades beginning their low-frequency throb.
Duke walked toward it, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, his expression tightening as he approached the machine.
His right leg began to ache with a dull, insistent throb.
His souvenir from a helicopter crash in Vietnam. Strangely, after a week of running through the brush in a fat suit and swinging a chainsaw, the leg had hurt less than usual. He decided to visit a doctor after going back to LA.
He climbed into the cabin. The pilot gave him a thumbs-up. Duke returned the gesture with a tight jaw as the machine lifted off, tilting forward and sweeping across the Dallas skyline.
When Duke arrived at the stadium, he found Mel Brooks sitting in a private box, looking hilariously out of place among the boisterous soccer fans.
Mel wore a shirt two sizes too big and was staring at the field confused. This was Mel's first professional soccer game, and he clearly hadn't been briefed on the rules.
Duke settled into the seat next to him, accepting a cold beer from a passing waitress. The Tornado were playing well, but the pace was leisurely compared to the energy of the basketball games Duke usually attended.
"So this is soccer?" Mel asked, gesturing vaguely at the field. "Where are the goals? I've seen more scoring at a bar mitzvah. They've been running for twenty minutes and the score is zero-zero."
Duke chuckled, taking a sip of beer. "This is American soccer, Mel. It's a bit like watching paint dry, boring. The real stuff is on Europe or South America that's where the game is interesting. You evem see grown men weeping in the stands over a missed penalty. You'd love the drama."
Mel snorted. "Crying grown men? Duke, that's just a typical day for me every night."
Duke smiled, the tension from the helicopter flight evaporating.
Mel launched into a bit about the "Maccabiah Games", the Jewish Olympics describing events like the "competitive bagel toss."
Duke tried not to smile, considering that this Maccabe Games were in commemoration of the death Olympic athletes from Israel, but the more he didnt smile, the more jokes Mel said.
During a moment in the game, lots of midfield passing that went nowhere, Mel's demeanor shifted.
"Duke, I've got another one. Blazing Saddles is almost in the can, and I'm telling you, it's going to be huge. But I need to start the next project immediately. I need you to say yes before the other studios start asking around."
Duke leaned back, giving Mel his full attention. "You've got the script, Mel? What's the pitch?"
"It's called Young Frankenstein," Mel said, his eyes lighting up. "Gene Wilder and I are writing it. We've been living at the Bel-Air Hotel, writing every night after shooting Saddles. But here's the catch, Duke and this is non-negotiable, it has to be in black and white."
Duke raised an eyebrow. "Black and white, Mel? This is 1973. The audience for black and white comedies is mostly people who still miss the radio. Why would we intentionally limit the box office?"
Mel leaned in, "Let me tell you. The original actor for the 'Waco Kid' in Saddles fell ill, and I begged Gene Wilder to fly out and take the role. He agreed, but only on one condition, that I'd make his next movie, a project he was writing called Young Frankenstein."
"I saw him on a lunch break in the desert, scribbling on a yellow legal pad. He had the whole premise. Frankenstein's grandson, a respected scientist ashamed of his family's 'madman' legacy. I asked Gene if he had any money to 'invest' in the idea, and he pulled fifty-seven dollars out of his pocket. I took the money and thats basically a contract!"
Duke nodded slowly, his mind already running numbers.
Mel continued, "We're shooting it on the original equipment from the 1931 Frankenstein. Same cameras. Same lenses. It's going to look exactly like a Universal horror film from the thirties. It will be a parody, but it's also a love letter."
Duke smiled. "I pitched a similar premise to you back in the day."
Mel grinned wickedly. "You did. I stole it. You should never tell a jew your ideas without signing a contract."
Duke laughed, clinking his beer bottle against Mel's. "Alright, here's the deal, you get me a shooting plan, a real budget, and a schedule, and I'll approve it. Paramount needs more comedy. Evans loves his prestige dramas, and they're great but we don't really have comedies in our slate now."
Mel took a satisfied gulp of beer, then looked at Duke with curiosity. "So, what have you really been doing out here in the middle of Texas? You playing a cowboy? You've got that look like you've been sleeping in a barn."
Duke reached into his jacket and pulled out a small envelope of polaroids.
Mel flipped through them, his eyes widening with each shot.
Duke in the sweat-stained fat suit. A close-up of the three different masks. A shot of Duke, still in costume, feeding a spoonful of soup to the Grandpa puppet. A candid photo of him eating BBQ with Tobe Hooper inside the gas station set.
"What the hell is this, Duke?" Mel asked, holding up a photo of the Leatherface mask. "Is this a horror movie about a slaughterhouse?"
Duke leaned forward, "It's called The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I play the monster. No dialogue, Mel. Pure physical performance."
Mel studied a photo of Duke in full costume, towering over the actors. Then he looked at Duke's actual frame, six-foot-five, 235 pounds and back at the photo.
"You? A killer?" He shook his head, "You know, this reminds me of that movie The Last House on the Left. That was Paramount, wasn't it? Very visceral movies."
Duke nodded. "The Last House on the Left is not Visceral."
Mel held up the photo again, squinting at Duke's posture. "You know, with your size... you could play Frankenstein. Not the grandson. The Monster. You've got the shoulders for it."
Duke let out a laugh. "If you're okay with your Frankenstein Monster walking with a limp , then I'm your guy, Mel."